


Saturdays with the Potters

by ravenclawsquill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gloves, Hand Jobs, Large Cock, Leather Kink, M/M, Secret Crush, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 09:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9650276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenclawsquill/pseuds/ravenclawsquill
Summary: I lean back against his chest, sagging into him, gasping and groaning as he sets a relentless rhythm that has my legs shaking. I’m squirming in his grip, thrusting into his fist, and in no time at all I’m on the edge.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capitu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capitu/gifts).



> This fic was written as a birthday gift for my lovely friend [capitu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capitu/profile).
> 
> Thank you so much, [carpemermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpemermaid/profile) for being a brilliant beta!

“No … this isn't right, Al,” I murmur as I run my finger down the page, squinting to decipher his untidy scrawl. “It was Damocles Belby who invented Wolfsbane, not Regulus Moonshine. And it was in 1976, not 1796.”

Al groans and buries his head in his hands. “Oh god, I’m useless! I’m going to fail every single NEWT, I just know it. I’ll end up shovelling dragon dung for a living, at this rate.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I sigh, reaching over to give his shoulder a gentle shove. “You’ve got loads of time for it to sink in. We’ll make flashcards or something.”

He straightens up and smirks at me. “Flashcards? Honestly, Scorp. How you weren’t Sorted into Ravenclaw, I’ll never know.”

I’m not sure how it happened either, to be honest. Perhaps it’s because the Malfoy blood runs so thick with ambition it’s practically solid. Maybe it’s because I’m only interested in learning things I can _use_. Either way, I can hardly stand by and let my best friend fail his NEWTs.

He’ll be fine, of course. Our school holiday study sessions in the Potters’ kitchen have become something of a routine over the last year or so – I practically _lived_ here last summer – and every single one starts like this. He always gets it in the end, though.

I finish correcting Al’s notes and reach for my textbook, ready to add some extra points to my own. I’m just putting the tip of my quill to the page when it happens: when _he_ comes in. Al’s big brother. 

The back door bursts open with such force it hits the wall, and he swaggers into the room with his broom slung across his shoulders. He sets it down carefully in the corner, then slips behind Al to ruffle his hair.

“Piss off, James!” Al growls, batting his brother’s hands away in irritation, but James just laughs and does it all the more. 

When he finally stops, he winks at me – like we’re co-conspirators – and my insides turn to liquid. Colour floods my cheeks as my stomach twists into a tight knot, and I quickly drop my gaze to the floor.

Merlin. Of all the guys to develop a crush on, why does it have to be _him_? 

That’s a stupid question, really. He’s just _fit_ , simple as that. Even now, I can’t look away for more than a few seconds.

He’s still wearing his Quidditch gear, fresh from his Saturday morning friendly. He’s covered in mud, his hair’s sticking up at all angles, and he hasn't even had the chance to take his gloves off. Those _gloves_. I can’t tear my eyes away from them: worn brown leather, snagged and cracked all over from constant use, hugging his knuckles so snugly I’m sure they must be custom made...

I’m so busy staring that I don’t even feel my quill slipping through my fingers. It throws a streak of black ink across the tiles as it hits the floor with a clatter, snapping me out of my daze.

I lean down to reach for it, but he’s quicker. His Seeker reflexes kick in and the quill is in his hand before it even comes to a stop. He gets back up and holds it out to me, presenting it to me as if it’s a precious gift.

“Thanks,” I croak as I take it from him, cheeks flaming as my fingertips come into contact with the supple leather. The gloves are every bit as soft as they look.

“No problem.” He flashes me a cocky grin, all white teeth and dimples, and heads over to the sink.

I inhale shakily, trying to keep my composure, but it only makes things worse: I smell a hint of sweat as he walks past. If it were anyone else, I’d find it disgusting, but on him … all I feel is a sharp surge of arousal. The smell, so raw and real, is yet another reminder of his athleticism – of the firm muscles which no doubt lie hidden beneath his clothes.

He pours himself a full pint of water and brings it to his lips, tipping the glass faster than he can gulp down its contents. I stare, transfixed, watching rivulets of water run down his chin as he chugs and gasps. The overflowing liquid glistens like diamonds in the late afternoon sun.

Al’s less impressed: he sighs loudly in disgust. “God, James, do you _have _to be such a pig?”__

__James finishes his drink and sets the glass down on the counter. “Always, baby brother,” he replies breathlessly, then slopes off, deliberately bumping into Al’s chair on his way out._ _

__Despite my best efforts, my eyes follow him as he heads through the door and out into the hallway. He’s only two years older than me and Al, but his shoulders are ridiculously broad and he even has a hint of stubble along his jaw. There’s no denying it: he looks like a _man_. _ _

__Only when he’s out of sight do I turn back to face Al, and find him frowning at me._ _

__“Scorp? Are you okay?”_ _

__I shake my head to clear it. “Yeah. Sorry. Where were we?”_ _

____

-*-*-*-*-

I step out of the Potters’ kitchen Floo the following Saturday, staggering slightly under the weight of my Charms textbooks, only to almost drop them when I’m greeted not by Al, but James.

He’s sitting in Al’s usual spot at the table, poring over a huge diagram – Quidditch tactics, by the looks of it, based on the trio of hoops drawn at either end – but he looks up from it to greet me with a nod. 

“He’s not here.”

“What?”

He leans back in his seat, stretching broadly. “Al. He’s stuck at the Burrow with Hugo,” he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “De-gnoming.”

I bite back an exasperated sigh. “Oh. Right. Nice of him to let me know.”

James shrugs. “Well, that’s just like Al, isn’t it? Useless.”

I know I should disagree, stand up for my best friend – it’s the right thing to do, after all – but James has a point: this isn’t the first time I’ve come round only to find that Al’s made other plans. 

I push my loyalty aside and remain silent, taking a moment to enjoy the view. I’m almost disappointed to see that James isn’t wearing his Quidditch garb today; just dark blue jeans and a crumpled white t-shirt, which admittedly shows off his tanned arms very nicely.

He seems to notice me staring, but far from looking uncomfortable, he _revels_ in it. He stretches again, more lazily this time, arching his back and reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. It’s a coppery, reddish brown compared to Al’s jet black, and it looks almost artfully messy – as if he scruffs it up on purpose.

“I suppose I’ll wait, then,” I mumble eventually.

James hums his assent and I shuffle over to the other end of the kitchen table to set down my books. My arms ache from holding them, and I give a quiet sigh of relief when the blood rushes back to my fingertips. As I sit down, I catch James watching me with an odd, unreadable expression.

Feeling unsettled, I quickly open my copy of _Quintessence: A Quest_ and bury my nose between its safe, familiar pages. The solace is short-lived, though. I find myself staring blankly at the page, struggling to take in a single word.

In fact, I’m completely unable to concentrate on anything other than James’s presence. If I were to look up right now, I’d see that messy head of hair … perhaps he’s chewing his quill … or maybe he’s biting his lip. With some effort, I force myself to keep my head down and my eyes on the page.

I'm not sure how long passes, but after a while James gets to his feet and rolls up his huge sheet of parchment. “I’m heading upstairs for a bit. Want to come up with me?” 

I gape, lost for words, trying to work out what he could possibly want from me.

He seems to take my silence for reluctance, because he hastily adds, “My mum and dad are out shopping with Lily, and that always ends in tears. Trust me, you don’t want to get caught in the crossfire if they get back early. Besides, Al will probably be ages – he and Hugo are crap at catching gnomes.”

I know this is a bad idea; I’m bound to make a fool of myself. My body has other ideas, though, and before I can stop myself, I’m nodding. “Um … okay?”

“Brilliant,” he says, and saunters from the kitchen, leaving me to follow tentatively behind. 

When he starts to climb the stairs, my disappointment at his casual clothing is replaced by a rush of gratitude; the jeans provide me with an excellent view of his arse.

He takes the stairs two at a time, and by the time he reaches his room, I’m half a flight behind. I rush up to join him, nervously stepping through the open door at the top.

I must have been round to the Potters’ a hundred times, but I’ve never seen James’s bedroom before; it’s at the very top of the house, in the attic. It’s exactly how I’d have pictured it, though. Every square inch of the room is packed full of Quidditch memorabilia, from the Holyhead Harpies bedspread to the countless posters which cover the walls.

I turn slowly on the spot, taking in every detail. His kit’s lying in a crumpled heap on the floor beneath the special wall frame which houses his broom, and there’s a replica Snitch on his bedside table. My heart skips a beat when I spot those damn gloves on the windowsill, framed by a shaft of sunlight.

A long silence stretches out, but I have no desire to break it. I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make me sound like a stupid kid. Just as the atmosphere begins to tip from awkward to excruciating, James speaks up.

“I’ve seen how you look at me, you know.” 

He says it so casually that at first I’m not sure what he means. “Wh-what?”

“You fancy me. I can tell.”

 _Shit._ I arch one eyebrow and tilt my chin up – an expression I learned from my father – but even as I do it, my traitorous blush gives me away. Still, I force my voice to remain steady. “What makes you say that?”

James puts his roll of parchment away in a drawer, then leans against the desk in the corner of the room, completely at ease. “The way you're always gawping at me, for a start. You're not exactly subtle about it.”

I turn away, cheeks burning, staring pointedly out of the window and wishing more than anything that I hadn't agreed to come up here with him.

I’m so completely absorbed in my panic that I don't hear him come up behind me. His warm breath behind my ear takes me by surprise, sending a thrill of fear and arousal coursing through my veins.

“Don't be embarrassed,” he murmurs. “I fancy you, too.”

He presses his lips to the nape of my neck, just once, testing the waters. When I don't stop him, he does it again, properly this time, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, raising a wave of goosebumps along my arms and neck.

“You do?” I whisper, cringing inwardly at how hopeful I sound.

He pauses. “Are you kidding? You're the prettiest bloke I know! How could I not fancy you, when you're always sat in the kitchen with that stupidly blond hair falling into your eyes … how could I not want to reach out and push it back for you?”

He runs his fingers through my hair as he speaks, dragging his nails across my scalp. It’s dangerously distracting, and I start to lose my train of thought. I claw it back, barely – just enough to voice my concerns.

“I … um … I thought you liked girls,” I say quietly.

He laughs, soft and warm against the back of my neck. “I do. But I like guys, too.”

“Oh.”

“And I like you,” he adds.

I try and fail to process what he’s saying – not that he gives me long to consider it. He snakes his arms around my waist, moves his hands lower, and I quickly forget how to breathe, let alone think.

He pulls my t-shirt up, exposing a few inches of my stomach, then makes quick work of unzipping my jeans. I release the breath I didn’t realise I’ve been holding and stand perfectly still as his fingers dip beneath the waistband of my boxers. He pauses for barely a second before inching lower and finally curling them around the base of my cock. I’ve been hard since the moment his lips touched my neck, and it feels almost too good to be true. 

My heart’s pounding in my chest and my eyes are half-closed, ready to savour every second, when he freezes. “Fucking hell, Scorp!”

His words douse me in icy horror; my stomach drops as a wave of sick dread washes over me. “What?”

He squeezes me insistently. “ _That!_ It’s bloody massive!”

It takes me a moment to realise he means my cock. “Is it?” I ask, unsure if he’s joking.

“Fuck, yeah. It’s like a fucking basilisk!”

My cheeks feel hotter than Fiendfyre. “Oh.”

“How could you not know?”

The sheer disbelief in his tone helps to bring me back to myself, and I frown. “Well I don’t really make a point of perving people up. We’re not all on the Quidditch team, soaping each other up in the showers, you know. Gobstones club doesn’t usually finish with us all getting naked.”

“Good job, really,” he murmurs, and even though I can't see his face, I can practically _hear_ him grinning. “You’d probably take someone’s eye out.”

I know he’s only teasing, but I can’t quite bring myself to laugh. “Is it okay?”

“It’s more than okay. It’s bloody hot.”

This time I really do laugh. James Potter – Quidditch prodigy, star of the trainee Auror programme – calling _me_ hot. Everything about this situation feels surreal, like a weird dream.

Then he pushes my boxers down and starts to stroke me, and there’s suddenly no room in my brain for anything else. 

I lean back against his chest, sagging into him, gasping and groaning as he sets a relentless rhythm that has my legs shaking. I’m squirming in his grip, thrusting into his fist, and in no time at all I’m on the edge.

“You like that?” he asks, his breath hot against my ear.

“Yeah … god…”

“Mmm, I am pretty godlike.”

“Shut uhhhhpp … _ohhhhhh_ ,” I groan, losing my words amidst the waves of pleasure as he sinks his teeth into the tender skin at the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

I grind back against him desperately, my breath catching in my throat as I feel the firm bulge of his erection against my arse.

“Turn around,” he growls.

I do as I’m told, struggling to contain my frustration as he lets go of me to make a start on unfastening his jeans.

He tugs roughly at the buttons, each one splitting the silence with a _pop!_ as it slips free. When the last one is undone, he pushes his jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs in one smooth movement, freeing his prick. He looks down at it, then at mine, as if he’s comparing them.

I can see what he means, now. There’s no denying that I’m _much_ bigger than him, in both length and girth, but he doesn't seem phased by it at all. In fact, he looks pretty pleased.

“God … it’s always the quiet ones,” he breathes. The awe in his voice somehow makes me feel all the more embarrassed.

He grabs my waist to pull me closer, adjusting his stance so our hips are level. When he’s satisfied with the position he tries to grip both of our pricks in his right hand. It’s hopeless, though: he can barely get his fingers around me, let alone the two of us. 

I nudge his hand out of the way and take hold of him firmly, confidently. It’s my first time touching another guy like this, but James doesn’t need to know that.

In many ways, his cock feels much like my own; smooth, warm skin, with the familiar ridged vein running along the underside. At the same time, it’s completely different. The hair at the base is much darker, for a start. But it’s more than that; he’s slimmer, _neater_ , somehow. I’m fascinated by the way my fist covers the entire length of his shaft, leaving just the head exposed.

I move my hand experimentally, drawing his foreskin over the sensitive head. Arousal twists in the pit of my stomach when he gasps raggedly in response. It’s the hottest sound I’ve ever heard.

My mind reels as I try to work out my next move. When inspiration fails to hit, I resort to replicating what I like. I trace the tip of my thumb over his sensitive slit, biting my lip to suppress a smirk as he thrusts forward involuntarily, then ease into slow, regular strokes, twisting my wrist ever so slightly at the end of each one.

My worries about my lack of experience evaporate as he settles into it, grunting appreciatively and meeting each stroke. I work his prick eagerly, determined to coax as many groans from his lips as I can, and his eyes fall shut as he loses himself in the sensation.

A few minutes pass, then he comes back to himself suddenly, looking almost surprised to find his own hands hanging by his sides. I can't quite suppress my sob of relief when he takes hold of me again to pick up where he left off, wanking me with a practised hand. 

We stumble back, never faltering in our movements, until he’s got me pressed up against the wall. He leans down, resting his forehead against my own. Our faces are so close I could count the freckles on his nose if I wanted to; but why would I waste my time on that when I can feel his warm breath on my lips? When I can feel his rough fingers on my cock? 

Just as I’m beginning to worry that I’ll come too soon, James beats me to it. He tenses up, muttering my name over and over as his prick pulses in my hand, spilling his sticky seed onto my fist. His rhythm on my own cock stutters for a few moments as he shudders through the aftershocks, then he picks up the pace, dropping his left hand to cup my balls.

“Come on, Scorp … come for me,” he murmurs. The words alone are enough to short-circuit my brain, but it’s the way he says them that undoes me. His voice is rough and raw: he sounds completely wrecked.

I come with a choked moan, rolling my hips and pushing against him, riding out each blissful spurt of my orgasm in a frenzy of brilliant friction. My release smears our stomachs and the bottom of my t-shirt, but I can’t bring myself to care. The only thing that matters is the pleasure roaring through every inch of my body.

He lets go of me before it becomes too much, and just like that, we’re back to staring at one another. The silence isn’t so awkward this time, though.

When James finally opens his mouth to speak, he’s interrupted by the _whoosh_ of the Floo two floors below. Hurried footsteps follow and we spring apart, still panting, as Al’s voice drifts up from downstairs.

“James? JAMES! Did I miss Scorp?”

“No,” James shouts back, frantically fumbling with the buttons of his jeans. “He’s up here with me.”

The staircase below creaks as Al begins to climb it. The sound spurs me into action: I pull my own jeans up and run my fingers through my hair, trying to tidy up the mess James has made of me.

Meanwhile, James grabs his wand off his bedside table and shoots a clumsy cleaning charm at the sticky hem of my t-shirt. He hasn’t fully recovered yet, and it shows; I hiss as the spell singes my stomach, leaving a small brown burn on the fabric.

Al bursts through the door a few moments later, his face contorted into the kicked-crup expression he reserves for occasions when he knows he’s in the wrong. 

“I’m so sorry, Scorp. You wouldn't believe the number of gnomes in my grandma’s garden.” He narrows his eyes at James, then turns his attention back to me. “I hope he wasn't too much of a prick.”

I shrug. “No, he wasn't too bad.”

Al doesn't look convinced, but thankfully the charred mark on my stomach distracts him. “What happened to your t-shirt?”

I cringe as I look down at it. “No idea. Blinkey must have buggered it up when she ironed it. Can't believe I didn't notice when I put it on.”

Predictably, Al takes the bait, pursing his lips in disapproval before launching into an argument we've had a hundred times before. “I can’t believe you have a House-elf. It’s not the nineteeth century, you know. ”

I let him rant for a minute or so, then roll my eyes and grab him by the arm. “I know, barbaric, enslavement, et cetera… Come on, we’ve already lost an hour of study time. Let’s go and panic over Charms.” 

Al grimaces and shuffles out of the room, still muttering under his breath about archaic Pure-blood traditions. I follow, but pause in the doorway, not quite able to resist looking back over my shoulder at James.

“ _I’ll owl you_ ,” he mouths, tipping me a wink that has my spent cock twitching in my pants.

I nod, then turn and dash down the stairs before he can see my grin. I somehow suspect I’ll be spending even more time at the Potters’ house from now on.


End file.
